Page 10 of Vow of the Shadow King

My words have power because they are true. I watch them hit the mark, watch my supposed husband reel. He’s unwilling to give an inch, however. Where a moment ago, I sensed shame, now I sense an equally profound indignation verging on anger swelling from behind his protective barriers. “Mythanar recognizes no law that allows one person to take the identity of another,” he growls. “Thus, I do not accept you in place of your sister.”

My sister.

My Ilsevel.

Dead.

My chin crumples. I try to stop it, try to suppress the sob as it rises in my throat. But I can’t. Nor can I stop the shuddering gasp, the sudden prickle of tears. Though I blink hard, a tear escapes through my lashes, races down my cheek.

Vor draws a sharp breath. For a terrible moment, I feel his walls cracking. But that’s the last thing I want right now, for him to let down his barriers, to reach out to me, to try to comfort me. “Faraine,” he begins.

I cut him off. “Go. Please.”

He hesitates. Then, with a frustrated exhalation, he lurches into motion, strides for the door. Just as he draws it open and takes a step through, however, I whisper softly, “Wait.”

He stops. Looks back.

“Will I be returned to the holding cell?”

He’s silent. I cannot bear to look at him. I stare down at my crossed arms, at the bloodstain on the scooped neckline of my gown. Waiting. Tense.

“Until further notice,” he says at last, “you will remain in the Queen’s Apartment. I will appoint a personal guard for your safety.”

“Am I your prisoner then?”

“As I said before, you are my guest.”

“And how long will I be your guest?”

“That remains to be seen.”

“So, I am a guest who may not come or go as she chooses?”

“Yes.”

I nod. “Very well, good King. I think we understand one another.”

He waits. Possibly hoping I will say something more, offer a softening word to make the tension between us less horrible. I cannot deny the urge to look up, to meet his eye. To beg him not to go. To fling myself out of this bed and into his arms and discover whether or not I can call back to life some spark of the heat we experienced the last time we were alone in this room together.

But those stolen moments were intended for Ilsevel. Not me. I was the thief in the night, taking from him that which was not mine. Something sacred. Something which I rendered profane.

So, we merely look at one another. And finally, Vor turns away. His long silvery hair slips over his shoulder, ripples down his back as he marches to the door. One moment, he’s silhouetted in the opening. The next, he’s gone. The door shuts fast behind him. A low boom echoes against the stone walls.

I sag back against the pillows, suddenly weak and shivery. Fury and fear and shame and sorrow course through me by turns. But at least these feelings are my own and no one else’s. My hand slips to my neck again, touching the awful gummy substance used to patch up my wound.

Then, almost unconsciously, I let my fingertips trail down my throat. Slowly, lingering. Following the same paths Vor’s fingers had explored on our ill-fated wedding night. First his fingers, then his lips, then his tongue—

Gods!

I clutch my crystal pendant so hard it digs into my flesh. Tilting my head back, I close my eyes and seek the resonance inside that will lead my storming mind and body back to a place of calm.

4

VOR

I stand outside her room at war with myself.

When I close my eyes she’s there—vividly before me, seated on that bed, her sleeve yanked off one shoulder. That beautiful, creamy shoulder with its pinkish undertones, so unusual here among the pale, blue-toned troldefolk. Even in my imagination, I long to reach out, to touch, to taste, to know—

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